


We Have Been Here Before

by NacreousGore



Series: TWL Top Dogs Week [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Coming In Pants, Communication, Cunnilingus, F/M, First Time, Kissing, Making Out, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Virgin Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:00:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29948277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NacreousGore/pseuds/NacreousGore
Summary: Frustrated after a series of dates end with Stiles missing Lydia's clues that she wants to take things further, Lydia tells Stiles directly and is very much pleased with the results.
Relationships: Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski
Series: TWL Top Dogs Week [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2198433
Kudos: 23





	We Have Been Here Before

The first time, it hadn’t been a date. Not really. 

Stiles had intercepted her as the campus library closed, hadn’t eyed her up or prodded. He had simply held the door for her and asked if she wanted to get dinner with him.

“Do you know an open place nearby that isn’t a fast food chain?” Lydia had asked, giving him a wary look. And he had smiled easily, like he was prepared for her combative response. 

Sitting in the independently owned bistro, chatting about classes and books, Lydia left the encounter with a feeling of warmth that she blamed on the tea. Jasmine leaves, hand-painted pottery.

The second date isn’t a date either, but another late night interception. 

Leading the way to a hole in the wall type cafe, and Stiles whispers his theory to her that it’s a front for something more sinister, judging by how it never seems to close. She raises an eyebrow critically at his conspiring tone, and just as critically judges his decision to order a double espresso given the hour. 

The criticism and judgement is slippery though, and slides off of her completely from Stiles’ unbothered company and conversation, and Lydia is shocked to note that four hours have slipped off into the night without her noticing. 

It’s the end of their third date - and Lydia has begrudgingly admitted that’s what they are - when she realizes that he’s won her over. He’s halfway through reading through the wine listings that he can’t afford, butchering the French and Italian names by over-enunciating in what Lydia thinks is an attempt at a Russian accent, and it’s late and she’s exhausted, but there’s a smile on her face the she can’t remember placing there intentionally. 

She lets him walk her back to her off-campus apartment, and turns to face him once they’re at the door of her building. Three maybe-dates, and he hasn’t tried to kiss her or undress her, hasn’t even tried to hold her hand, and it’s here - in the flickering orange light outside her low rise apartment, breath spotting out cold against the damp grey evening - that Lydia surprises herself with how much she’s suddenly wishing that he would. 

“Goodnight, then,” Lydia says in a hushed voice, but her fingers don’t reach into her pocket for her key. Instead she stands facing him, hands at her sides.

Stiles takes a cautious step towards her and she doesn’t draw away. He comes to a stop and she waits, lifting her chin up a fraction of a degree, looking at him through the brushing line of her lashes, parting her lips in a subtle invitation. 

There’s silence then, silken and engrossing and it spreads between them as Stiles looks back at her, an openness to his stare that Lydia gets lost in for a moment. She’s drawn back out of it when she realizes that staring is all he’s going to do with that spreading silence.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me?” She says finally, and Stiles blinks.

“Do you want me to?” He asks. His words sound rounded off, like they were tumbled smooth in their rush to leave his mouth.

“Obviously. I’m standing here waiting,” Lydia says, the impatient lash of her tongue implying that she’s sick of doing so. 

_“‘Obviously’”_ Stiles repeats, blinking again, faster this time. “Not _obviously,_ you didn’t say anything, I’m just supposed to infer that? You should just ask - ”

“Stiles,” Lydia interrupts with a flat snap, and he shuts his mouth immediately, watching the annoyed lift of her brow and taking another inching step in. 

In the moment before he’s closing the distance between them, Lydia can see flashes from past partners in her head. How all it ever took for Jackson to kiss her was an expectant look, an impatient twitch of her foot and he would see her demand, sigh and fulfill it. How it took so much less with Aidan, just a faint drop of her shoulder, her eyes on him for a split second followed by that animalistic surge he would come at her with, the claiming and entitled dig of his tongue.

It isn’t like that with Stiles. Instead of pushing against her with a ferocity or like he’s acting out a duty he simply lines up their mouths and presses his closed lips against the slight part of hers, and kisses her carefully. 

It’s soft, subdued. There’s nothing possessive to it, or expectant, and Lydia is surprised by the stillness of him against her. Surprised because Stiles hardly ever stopped moving, like he was stitched together with knots of manic restlessness, fingers always tapping or twitching by his sides, leg bouncing while he sat, too caffeinated for long silences. 

There’s a dark and quiet look in Stiles’ eyes when they come apart again. Like rushed awe and tranquility, and Lydia feels it burning through her chest long after he’s said goodnight and she’s tucked back inside her apartment. 

Lydia suggests the fourth date.

It’s more of an implication, an invitation to study - somewhere more private than the campus library, and Stiles agrees readily. 

Her disbelief when he brings an armload of textbooks and research pages turns to bewilderment when he actually settles in and studies. She’s flummoxed by the end of it when he presses a tentative kiss to her cheek at that’s it, though she is willing to admit the combination of his work ethic and fleeting attention span was somewhat impressive, if not wholly baffling. 

At the offer of a fifth date, Lydia had declined going out, and said in her most suggestively subtle tone that they go to her apartment and put a movie on. 

Three hours later, sitting next to Stiles on her couch in front of the tv Lydia watches the _playing next_ screen suggest a new flock of titles.

Stiles fidgets and suggests one of the passing titles. It’s the same vein of fidgeting that Lydia had first interpreted as a restlessness to _do something,_ but on his seventh readjustment on the couch she’s reached her limit. Five dates, hours of time together, hours alone where none of her dropped hints have been picked up and when she finally caves and addresses it, annoyance is prevalent on her tongue.

Stiles responds a little bewildered, a little brashly irritated.

“So stop _dropping hints_ and just _talk_ to me,” he blurts out in the face of her confrontation. “I’m overthinking every encounter with everyone, and you can’t bank on assuming I’m going to interpret your coded signals when I don’t know the code in the first place.” His words come out a fraction hurt but it’s mostly softened annoyance. It makes her feel a little guilty alongside the frustration, and it’s not a pleasant blend. 

“You don’t have much experience with this, then,” Lydia says, and Stiles deflects a little, shrugging just as defensively. 

“Dating? Or making the first move?” He says, moving uncomfortably under the levelness of her eyes on him. “Because no, and no.” 

“So are you - ” Lydia stops herself, tries to reword. “You don’t have much _experience_ either then.” She meant it to be a question, but the tail end of her sentence falls flat. 

“Not really,” Stiles says somewhat easily. “Not at all, actually. I watch a lot of porn, if that helps,” he offers.

“It does not,” Lydia says back smoothly. 

There’s a bridge of silence then as Lydia flicks off the television and turns to face Stiles on the couch, primly adjusting the hem of her skirt and levelling him with a decidedly un-prim expression. 

“So,” she says, with as much intention behind the word as she can lay. 

“So what do you want me to do?” Stiles asks next. There’s something in his tone that’s almost timid beneath the friendly unaffected nature, and Lydia pauses for a moment. Again, those flashes of the past, comparisons jumping up readily to remind her how assertive and aggressively _there_ in how forward they were.

How dating Jackson had been like performing with an partner who had his lines memorized, his moves executed flawlessly, if not a little bored. And how all those other boys had been a whirlwind of physical attention, whose conversation left her entirely unfulfilled but they had always brushed it off with the hunger of their hands for her body, mapping out their desire for her in flesh and hot breath.

Though Stiles’ attention made her feel desired too, maybe more so, maybe properly, _entirely,_ and Lydia doesn’t answer him right away, suddenly confronted with how what she expected, what she was used to, and what she was now faced with weren’t aligned at all. 

“Why don’t you tell me what you want?”

“Okay,” Stiles says quickly enough, but doesn’t move until Lydia is raising her eyebrows at him. The gesture is expectant, impatient and Stiles fidgets slightly, speaking again. “Okay, I want to kiss you,” he says, and Lydia sighs. Expectant, impatient, and hoping it sounds closer to encouraging that annoyed.

He kisses her then, a little less tentative than the first time, and Lydia sighs into it, lifting her hands to touch against his chest and Stiles inches back with their lips still connected as if the soft touch has been a command flattened out by her palms. 

“Do you want to take this to the bedroom?” Lydia asks then, slipping into a demure tone that Stiles tips his head towards curiously.

“You sure you don’t want to watch that documentary on poison dart frogs?” Stiles asks, and Lydia stares at him. 

“Joke,” he says immediately. “Joke, that was a joke - joking.” and the hand that was on her waist is now digging into the side of the couch cushion like he’s reaching for an anchor. 

“Mhm. Very funny,” Lydia says, pursing her lips into a fake smile but punctuating it by standing up from the couch and offering her hands to him. He goes easily, and clumsily. 

On her back on top of her comforter, Lydia marvels again in how Stiles simply won’t escalate without her coaxing. 

Despite his overwhelming enthusiasm, Stiles seems content to just kiss her - if content could be rushed and hopeful too, his pulse beneath her hands almost helplessly fast.

His tongue is a wet smear against her mouth, a softly surprised sound that’s too small to really be a moan coming out when she arches her back, tugging him flush against her body before she’s prompting him again, her words crushed velvet on the side of his neck, _”tell me what you want.”_

“Can I go down on you?” Stiles asks in a soft rush, and Lydia pauses, looking at the bright and eager shine in his eyes, the just as wet shine of his mouth. She leans in to kiss the latter, hums a confirmation into his mouth. 

When he kisses her back there’s a buzz of raw energy beneath the movement, and when they pull apart again Lydia can see that eager shine in his eyes is almost clouded over, dark and heavy and dotted with stars as much as nerves. 

“Tell me if I’m doing something wrong,” Stiles says then, the pads of his fingers tracing up the soft skin on her thigh.

“Oh, I will,” Lydia promises, and there’s a small pause then before Stiles is moving his fingers beneath her skirt, slipping under the hem of her panties. Lydia moves easily in rhythm with his hands, lifting her hips off the mattress and Stiles takes the cue, sliding the material down until it’s slipping off past her feet. Lydia settles back against the bed, fanning her feet out on either side of Stiles who’s kneeling hesitantly now, and with her own knees bent, she drops her thighs open a little further in a silent hint. 

He moves slowly, his thumb coming in to stroke feather-soft along her slit, and his eyes dart up again, those nerves present in his glance before he’s dropping his head towards her body. 

Lydia isn’t sure what it is she’s expecting when he first starts. Something along the lines of over-enthusiasm and incoordination, too wet or clumsy, she supposes, so when the first tentative motion of Stiles’ tongue hits her it’s almost a relief with how easy he takes it. The same thumb is applying a soft pressure into the side of her labia, parting her slightly while his tongue moves in a slow flick that circles her entrance before ducking back up to spread a flat press to the general direction of her clit. Lydia settles back against the mattress, letting her legs fall fully open, eyes lazily recapping the details of her ceiling. 

The light from passing headlights sprawls across the walls, shrinking with shadows and Stiles is curling the edge of his tongue, rolling it back into her. Lydia can feel a bridge of hesitation in his movements before he’s flicking his tongue again, winding it down into her entrance a fraction of an inch before ticking up and sliding back out. It’s a slow rhythm that’s accompanied by a finger moving in to slide around where his thumb is stationed. Feeling out the territory, Lydia determines, but after a moment Stiles’ finger settles around the top, rubbing in a crooked circle over her clit.

“This okay?” He asks, the warm flood of his breath going deliciously cool against the wetness and Lydia winds her arms down the mattress, one hand scraping over his hair.

“Yeah, it’s okay,” she answers. Another swarm of headlights dripping down the ceiling then. Rush hour picking up, though the side street her apartment stands on never got the worst of it. 

Stiles eases his mouth into a motion, tonguing the cusp of her and dragging it up, the side of his finger attempting to synchronize and Lydia relaxes into it. 

It’s a gentle pattern that picks up and continues until Stiles is unexpectedly enclosing his lips over the bud of her clit, and for a moment there’s the feel of his tongue running up and down her hood, parting it with each upward movement, then the wet pressure of faint suction and Lydia makes a noise of surprised contentment, almost like a purr. She can feel Stiles’ response to it too - his hand slips around to slot under her thigh, holding tight while his breathing lifts. She can feel the soft rush against her mons as he breathes out from his nose, thumb brushing at her opening in a quick tremble that feels more like a tease than she can fathom him intending. 

Beneath the swirl of his tongue Lydia can feel her clit fully awaken, sensitivity sparking to life and the rest of her body is stirring to match the energy. It’s more than she had expected, better than the _spelling the alphabet_ trick she was always dreading on some basic level, and when the next flow of headlights breaks against her bedroom walls she doesn’t see them, eyes pinned closed and head pressing back into her pillows. 

She can feel the hot circle of Stiles’ lips against her, the rounding of his tongue being chased by his wet exhale, and Lydia lets out a short moan, sinking her spine into the blanket and pulling her legs further open, pressing the sides of her knees towards the bed as she pushes up into his mouth. Stiles’ next breath out is an open-mouthed moan that she can feel alongside the motion of his tongue, and it blurs with the low pressure that’s been building. His sound is partnered with a sudden squeeze to the back of her thigh, his rhythm faltering for a moment but then the hot pointed tip of his tongue is back against her clit, and it pulses in response. Lydia can feel it like a second heartbeat now, swollen in response to Stiles’ attention. She hardly realizes that she’s started to move against the ghosting friction, pressing herself down in a curved angle towards his mouth. 

And his mouth is there to catch her, soft but so solid, receiving the ripples of her motions, working with them, and Lydia startles herself to find that she’s on the brink of an orgasm. She can feel it building up, greedy for more tongue, more of that easy prodding and she lowers her hips towards the mattress, trying to burrow the clearest shot towards Stiles’ mouth. He readily lets her, licking into where she’s trying to aim, and when she angles herself slightly lower, the pad of his thumb presses a little firmer towards her entrance and she gasps.

“Right there,” she says in a breath, hammered out by her pulse and Stiles makes some noise of affirmation against her, not slowing his movements. His tongue is tracing the throb of her clit and the slick swirl of it is hunting down her orgasm.

“Keep doing that,” Lydia says, feeling a shake enter her legs, suddenly and desperately terrified the heat is going to wilt and she’ll lose this building wave before it breaks.

 _“Mhm,”_ Stiles hums against her, rubbing his thumb in where it sits pressed against her, and the tip of his tongue feels burning hot, directly against her clit and so unwavering, and with another cry Lydia is reaching the peak of it, grabbing the back of Stiles’ head as her thighs sink in, pinning him in place against the motion of the orgasm that’s flaring out. 

It coils throughout her body, her muscles locking then shuddering and relaxing again and the warm throb of her clit dissolves into a pulse that fades into a twitch against Stiles’ tongue. 

When Lydia drops her legs back down to nudge him off, Stiles pulls away, smoothing his hands along the outside of her legs to steady himself.

“Was that okay?” He asks, and Lydia can see the glaze on his expression, glossy with the way his words seem to stick on their way out. She laughs a little breathlessly instead of answering, and unsticks his hands from her legs by pulling them towards her, coaxing him up the mattress.

“Thought you said you didn’t have any experience,” she says, winding one leg to the outside of his and inching up on the bed, tugging at one of his arms to draw him down towards her.

“I don’t,” Stiles says back. “I’ve done extensive research.” He gives in to her actions after a slight pause, drawing back up to fold over her body and Lydia turns into the motion, brushing her cheek across his forehead.

“Here,” Lydia says next, voice sounding almost distant in her own ears. She’s reaching for the button on his jeans, slipping a finger into the waistband. “Let me get you off.” 

“S’okay, I already did,” Stiles says back. The words smear greasily onto her temple as he reaches down to brush her hand away.

“You did?” Lydia asks, tone disbelieving but when she looks down between their bodies there’s no missing the damp spot on the inseam of Stiles’ jeans.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, brushing it off. The dip of his chin is wet, and as Lydia notices he’s dipping his tongue out again to sweep over his bottom lip. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he adds, voice almost slurred with how thick it sounds. Something in Lydia reacts to his words, making a note of them to reflect on later, to imagine all the times he’s thought in depth of eating her out, but in the moment she just brings her arms around to either side of his neck, kisses him deep. The wet motion of his tongue against her lips draws a satisfied hum out of her.

“Well, feel free to do it again sometime,” she says once they draw apart.

“Really?” Stiles asks, eyes half-lidded and he sounds so tiredly happy at the concept that Lydia has to laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> I have some unfinished installments I could polish up if people want the followups, you can bother me on Tumblr about it: https://nacreousgore.tumblr.com


End file.
